


37 degrees celsius

by afterhoursfiction



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Also Teen Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, thanks akaashi, yes weird I know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9469178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterhoursfiction/pseuds/afterhoursfiction
Summary: The average temperature of a human body, and Bokuto Koutarou always runs a little warmer. Akaashi Keiji is barely eighteen, and he wants everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This muse hit me at 2am and then I started writing it down in second-person. It's not a POV I use often, so it's pretty experimental. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

37 degrees celsius.

It's the average temperature of a healthy human body. Any higher and it's a fever. Any lower and it's hypothermia. You know this - from books, from the internet, or from school; it doesn't really matter. It's the basis of biology, the backbone to other, more complicated theories. You trust science and numbers in the way that it can't lie. If it's a fact, nothing can possibly argue or dispute it.

 

* * *

 

Then you meet Bokuto Koutarou. You're barely sixteen and he's running you and the other first years to the ground with killer laps around the school. The first lap and you're feeling stitches. The second and you're having a hard time breathing. The third and your muscles are burning. When you finally finish, you slouch over your knees while the seniors - who had ran with you, are laughing. You begin to think that you've accidentally signed up for hell.

"Hey! are you guys bullying the first years?"

You look up, and the managers are yelling at the seniors.

"But they're all so _weak!"_ A loud, whiny voice argues. He goes on, saying that you have to keep your body warm to play. You agree, but you don't think he understands moderation.

"That's why you train them, Bokuto-san!"

 _Bokuto-san._ From then on you know his name, and it's easy to pin it to his lack of indoor voice and his striking salt-and-pepper hair. You start to learn the names of your seniors, the other year ones and the managers.

 

* * *

 

Before you know it you're a second year. The ball is flying off your hands, following a trajectory into the spiker's field of vision. Another perfect toss. You haven't been practising all year for nothing.

"That was good, Akaashi!" Bokuto turns right after the ball slams on the other side of the court. You smile at his compliment.

"Let's try another one, Bokuto-san."

Setting for Bokuto becomes a regular thing. Extra practices also becomes a regular thing. Free time quickly grows scarce and you're tired all the time.

"You need more stamina, Akaashi!"

"Akaashi, eat more!"

You want to say, "Not everyone is like you, Bokuto-san." But something in you continues; you continue to agree to extra practice and you continue tossing the ball. Bokuto is doing his best and you want to do your best too. It was that simple.

 

Then he asks you to be vice-captain. He explains it away like how he talked about the laps that almost killed you. You're always setting for him; you understand him - won't it be perfect? You would agree, but you think about homework, the weariness in your muscles, about grades-

"Trust me, you'll be a _great_ vice-captain, Akaashi!"

He slings his arm over your shoulder, pulling you towards him.

It's warm. _He_ is warm.

You're probably 37 degrees, but he's warmer.

You think about everything he had said about needing to keep your body warmed up. His warm blood, body and all, must be a testimony to that.

You agree to be vice-captain.

 

* * *

 

Inter-highs are coming up and you train harder than ever, tossing up every ball until your hands are calloused, weathered by practice. You're seventeen, a year younger than everyone else and you have to be _good,_ to match them. But mostly, to match him.

You know he only sees you for the number on the back of your jersey. He only sees you as his setter, his vice-captain, his team mate. But you are young and naive, and you want everything in the world. You want to make it to nationals and you want to make the school proud and

Oh, you want him.

You'll take him to nationals. And then...tell him.

 

When the last set ends in your favour, you stare in disbelief. Nationals isn't a dream. Then, Bokuto is running towards you, his arms thrown open. Bokuto Koutarou isn't a dream, either.

You wait for everything to calm down. Everything except your heart, except the warm blood going up to your head. The words catch in you throat, but you tell him anyway.

"Akaashi, you..."

You don't know whether to cry or laugh when he wraps his arms around you. Nationals and Bokuto Koutarou. You feel warmer than 37 degrees, and you hope it's not a fever dream.

 

* * *

 

He's breathing hard, and you are too. You haven't started running, and your bodies are already warm. Bokuto leans over you; his tie is coming apart in your hands and his shirt is next. He untucks your shirt and kisses your mouth. The blood is rushing to your head, swirling like a hot and heavy cloud around your brain. Or maybe between your legs, if he gives you _that_ kind of attention.

A storeroom of gym equipment, ten minutes to practice and 37 degrees between you and him feels too little.

 

The rest of the team learns, gradually. You don't know how exactly it happens, but it's hard to avoid their gazes and the not-so-subtle whispers behind your back. You're vice-captain, but you're really still a second year. Barely eighteen, and you wanted everything.

The passes are stiff and your tosses are mismatched. When it misses completely, you click your tongue. All those extra practices, and this is what it becomes?

Extra practices, or 'Extra practices'?

Never date your coworkers, your team mates. Bokuto said you understood him. But you were only his setter, his vice-captain, his team mate. Maybe that was as much as you could be, as much as you could have before your focus starts slipping, your hands start slipping, your grades and then nationals.

 

* * *

 

37 degrees, and it's too hot. You're not running a fever yet but your head is too stuffy to think straight. The blood burns hot in your veins, the way it does after a hard sprint. The numbers on your jerseys and the years between you are irrelevant. Both of you are seeing red. You shout, and he shouts back. Suddenly, your name on his tongue, spit like a stench, is the ugliest sound in the world.

It's coming apart.

You can't have nationals and you can't have Bokuto Koutarou. Everything comes down to nothing. You lose and you lose, until you're breathing again.

The first run that burns your muscles and your lungs. The first toss and all the others that follow. Feeling his arms around you; burned out muscles and sweat that was warmer than your own body. Him pressing his lips against yours, and the heat clouding around your head. You shouting at him; your pent-up stress in the heat of your words.

 

It's getting late; your head and your muscles are weary. That alone should put you to sleep.

You're 37 degrees celsius too. Just like Bokuto Koutarou, even though he always runs a little warmer. The weather says it's hardly cold enough for hypothermia, but you think

If only it was warmer.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://afterhoursfiction.tumblr.com)


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